


The Thing I Wanted

by arlenejp



Category: Johnlock fandom - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: John and Sherlock face the truth





	The Thing I Wanted

The biting London air has him forcing himself to walk, head down and collar turned up against the freezing winter wind, letting his legs guide him. He sees nothing in his path, whether the brightly lit buildings or the dark of the sky above. He walks quickly, briskly, as though followed by some unseen ghost.

How quickly does he arrive at the building? He doesn't know. Could have been ten minutes or ten hours. His mind concentrated on one goal-- getting here. Now what? As he blinks up at an all-too-familiar sitting room window. This place that he had once known intimately. It's window mocking him with just the faintest of lights from a lamp. 

He's in front of the building, walking, no pacing, up and down the street. What should he do? No, dope, he murmurs to himself, you know what you should be doing. What are you waiting for?

The steps upward, those he's walked so many times, seventeen steps to be exact. Turning the knob, hands sweaty, he steps into the dimly lit room. 

As he hesitantly treads in he hears his baritone voice, low, the dim lighting casting an eerie spell.  
"You were at the hospital, and your determination wavered while walking here. You were undecided. Do you come to Baker Street or not? Walking a circuitous route, you finally ended up on this street. But still, you took your time. It's quite cold out, and you paced back and forth, hands in pockets. Oscillating on the pavement, John?”  
Sherlock is nervous. He hears it in his voice.  


He's trying to lessen the pain, but the rage, the utter loathing tries his patience. His arms remain stiff at his side; his fingers tighten into a fist. 

His focus is channeled on my presence, his chin drops, he blinks, his eyes read my agitation. 

“What else can I do but say I'm sorry. If I had only known how long--and what you would suffer--.”

His hand gestures to the empty chair. The chair that he once called his. He whispers, “Sit, John? Please? Let me attempt to explain?”

“What the fuck can you explain," his fist bangs against his side. "If you only knew--only could have seen--," staring him down, lacking the initiative to pummel his body. 

“Oh John, the barest of a whisper." Oh, John, you weren't the only one-"interrupting me," the only one to suffer." 

Glancing at him, puzzled, look away.

"What did you say?" still fuming inside, feet stuck to the ground.

“Yes, I suffered also. It was just as hard for me as for you.”

Stop John, stop and think. The words pour out of him, uninhibited, "If for one moment you can compare me to you--. You, you, were out playing with Moriarty, alive, while I--." Uncurling my fists, he takes his first calm breath. 

“It would behoove you to understand how I -” his voice snapping, challenging.

“What? You--. Johns's voice edges up, his mouth falls open, “Is this it? All you care about is you? What makes you think it's any comparison to the years I believed my best friend--," choking back, shaking his head in disbelief," that I killed him. Seeing him jump, lie in his blood on the pavement." Shifting his body away from him, he turns back," one word, one note, one gesture unseen by anyone. It would have made a big difference."

His self-restraint chokes in his mouth. Willing to bring it forth. To rein in his, and finally, he lets go with," I don't have to, I can envision--."  
"No, no. Don't go that route. You're not close to understanding. You and your brother, enjoying this. Laughing at pathetic John. Did you chuckle over tea while I was drowning in drink? While you were chasing these so-called criminals, did it occur to you to pity me?"

Sherlock stands, slowly. John's hands fist, waiting to puncture the mans calm. And pauses.  
What he does see astonishes him, has him waver. Sherlocks utter downtrodden look. His arrogance vanished. Instead, a man who, when he speaks, has lost its haughty, walking encyclopedia manner.  
Johns eyes refuse to accept and flash with anger.  
"Pity you? No. But fear for your safety, yes. Fear for myself does not register for me. But, losing you, when all I tried to do was save you? It was not meant to be a game, as you seem to assume. I've tried to be your hero. To--, " and he averts his eyes. "You're still in as much danger as before," he blurts out, panic trailing those words.  
John swallows, trying to keep his feet solidly on the ground. It's shaking beneath him.  
Rage again sweeping over him, he growls, "danger you say. What gives you the right to decide what is dangerous or not?"  
Sherlock raises his hand to stop him.  
"No again. You don't decide about my life and how I run it. If you had only asked, God if you had, I would have risked everything. But you, the great, the one and only Sherlock Holmes decided it was your job to rescue me. But do you know what you did? You abused and mistreated me. Acted as if I was a baby and had no choice. Can you even begin to fathom it? Or are you so wrapped up in you--in how the world perceives you that you can't understand anyone else's emotions. Torture, that's what you did to me."

John sees the anger in Sherlock's face but quickly replaced by a look of panic.  
John begins to question what Sherlock is doing by removing his dressing gown and lifts his shirt over his head. Turning his back to John, he hangs his head.  
John quakes, gasps and reaches as if to touch the horror he sees on Sherlocks body.  
From shoulder to his hips are welts, some bright red, some dark brown. Crossing over and over. Those recently stitched and those that are apparent burn marks.  
John is horrified, and in his minds eye can picture the scene of this torture.

"You see, I also understand. And so sorry for any abuse you had to endure."  
He can't talk, his mouth open, the monstrosity of the events that this took place in is hard to comprehend. His stomach roils, he swallows slowly.

"There were three snipers ready to take out the three people that mattered most in my life. If it had been only you, John, only you, I would have done it again," his voice broken.  
He bends to pick up the shirt," I had no choice. I tried-- I wanted to save--and I--. Can you ever forgive me?" The shirt still in his hands. Still not facing the one man who means so much to him.

With a step towards him, John reaches out an with a finger, traces some of the marks, the ones that won't make him wince.  
"Shit, Sherlock. Did you kill the ones that did this to you? Are they dead? If not--."  
"Yes," while Johns fingers roam the scars. He doesn't want him to stop," and you don't have to say it. I know you would be going after them right now."  
"Dammit to hell, I would."  
Sherlock bends, picks up his shirt and shrugs it on and turns to face John.  
Not quite surprised but bewildered to see lines of tears on Johns face.  
Daringly, but gentle, his thumb brushes at them.  
John steps back, his gaze never leaving Sherlocks face.  
The night provides some shelter from the tension, the strain in the air. But it also provides hiding, a place where the shadows keep the feels down.

Taking a breath, John, slowly says," You said there were things you've never told me. That you would say when you came back, could you say them now?" His voice is pleading.  
Sherlocks face registers surprise, fear, and sadness. His emotions evident, but with something else, with a thing, he can't fathom. And strangely, tears are shining in his eyes.

Sherlock is showing me something I've never seen before. His vulnerableness, exposing his emotions for me to watch as they play along his face.  
"I didn't then--, but it was different. I was afraid--if I said it--you would--and I was leaving. Not a good time. But--now--to say it--would you--.I'm still frightened."  
Those words, that hesitation, coming from the mouth of Sherlock. Naked emotions.

John bites his lip, holding back his response but closing the gap between them with tentative steps. Will Sherlock raise his hand, denying him the closeness?  
His voice throaty, searching for something," you're with me. I'm not going--," stumbling over the words.  
Sherlock's attention is on Johns shoes," I was alone--thought it good--to be alone--no one--and then--," his voice stutters, his breathing is irregular, he's unsteady, swaying.  
Waiting for more John, let's go with a few breaths," what Sherlock? Then what?"

Sherlocks hand reaches out to touch Johns shirt, to hold himself steady. Ground him.  
"Until I found you," Sherlock looks right at John, fear displayed in his face and eyes. His words rush out, jumbled, his understanding whirling around him like leaves falling off a tree.

" I thought by saving you--that it would be good-- keeping you from the truth--from what was evident to all but you. And when I jumped--oh god, you watched me--even though--I knew--Mycroft and Molly knew--."  
A breath and then more pours out, his hand still on Johns's chest but pulling on the shirt, as if to keep him near.  
"I did this--I made you look-- never thinking about--going forward--just the moment--the--."  
John's holding his breath, letting this point in time continue, not sure where it will stop, but hoping, desperately hoping.  
Sherlocks eyes are wet, open to John, letting him in.  
"People have said," taking a breath," that I do not have a heart. That I'm cold, unfeeling--."  
He knows that Sherlock can feel his heart pounding, hammering through the thin shirt.  
"But I have a heart. And I gave it away--," pausing, inhaling," I--I--gave it to you, John."  
He's trying to breathe. To ingest what Sherlock has uttered when a hand touches his cheek. Another deep breath. Has he indeed said what he did?  
"The things I never told you--and I want to say them now. Things I could never say a long time ago." He leans down towards Johns's ear, "I love you, John Hamish Watson."  
Johns legs give way, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, half dragging him to the sofa where they sit, enveloped in each others arms.  
John sees it; clearly, all the obstructions falling away like sharp needles. The relief, the ability to lay it on the line. To say what words he never told this man holding him so firmly.  
"Sherlock," his fingers trailing a line around those cheekbones, " I love you."


End file.
